


and then tomorrow we'll do it again

by mindyfication



Series: I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Episode: s05e07 The Curious Case of Dean Winchester, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 19:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindyfication/pseuds/mindyfication
Summary: “Sam, you’ve come back. Here for your brother’s years?” he asks, toying with his toothpick.“And a clean bill of health,” Sam says.Patrick laughs, snaps his fingers. “Fixed. Can’t have you distracted while we play.”





	and then tomorrow we'll do it again

**Author's Note:**

> I started thinking about what if Lia had been born a century or four earlier and uh, this happened. The final draft came out way less hate sex-y and is a softer take on the song. We're up to track three: Drowning Lessons ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nAw-lNvqzs)).

Sam shouldn’t be here. This witch already kicked Bobby and Dean’s asses, and he’s a far more modest poker player than either of them. There would only be one way to win, to have a huge winning hand after the witch underestimates him. It’s not a bad plan, but there’s no plan b, and with his brother’s life on the line instead of just money, his stomach won’t stop turning. 

Patrick gives away a dozen or so years to an old man, sending him off. Sam can’t help but cynically wonder if that was meant to put him at ease- but Patrick’s sharp grin says it wasn’t. It twists his idea of the years stealing witch, but he isn’t here as a hunter. 

“Sam, you’ve come back. Here for your brother’s years?” he asks, toying with his toothpick. 

“And a clean bill of health,” Sam says.

Patrick laughs, snaps his fingers. “Fixed. Can’t have you distracted while we play.” Sam snorts, as if the clap had anything on the litany of _if I lose Dean dies_ and the witch’s eyes fucking sparkle. 

An hour later, and Sam’s only up ten years, still needs another forty. If he wins a few modest hands and then one big win, he’ll be good. 

Patrick sighs, “Your brother is having a heart attack.” 

Sam shoves twenty years across the table, “Cash those out for Dean.” 

The witch doesn’t argue, burns them on the side. And Sam’s screwed now, they both know it. He needs to win two big pots instead of just one and Patrick’s reading him better with every hand. He’s winning more steadily now, and Sam’s down to just five chips, sweat dripping down his brow.

Patrick shuffles the deck as he talks, not dealing the cards yet. “You almost had me there Sam, in another life you would’ve. I won’t be underestimating you.” 

Sam exhales, doesn’t believe him for a second. It’s the kind of line Dean used on easy marks so they wouldn’t feel so bad, might try their luck again. Not that he thinks the witch- it was only twenty-five years, he could buy in again. Lose again. Dean wouldn’t die alone, or really, he wouldn’t have to live without him again. 

“The magic works in time,” Patrick says, sets a single platinum poker chip in the table’s middle. “You take that and Dean goes back to normal, you don’t lose any years the traditional way.” 

Sam swallows, has to ask even though he already knows his answer, “In what way then?” 

He smiles slow, “You’re mine tonight.”

Sam knows his expression is telling, can’t help it, the deal is so much better than he’d hoped. “Just tonight?” 

Patrick grins, “Aye. Last companion that took me up on it stayed around for another two hundred years, but I won’t stop you from leaving in the morning.” 

Sam grabs the chip, “Okay.” 

It flares hot in his hand, a plume of silver-white light exploding out in a pretty wave. Patrick burns up the other chips, and the flames are a little brighter than before as it hits Sam. 

“The chips- they’re all showmanship aren’t they?” 

Patrick pulls out the toothpick he’s been toying with, pleased, pointing with it. “That they are. Perceptive. You’d make a fine witch Sam.” 

Sam isn’t sure if he’s more flattered or insulted, and Patrick laughs at whatever face he makes. “C’mon,” he says, standing. “My hotel’s a short walk, you can call your brother on the way.” 

He does, though he waits until they’re a few blocks from the bar and Patrick just smirks like he knows why. It’s irritating, but Sam doesn’t want to piss off his- boss? master? temporary owner?- whatever before things have even begun. And there’s a part of him, a part that he likes to think Ruby woke up, that positively croons at the idea of a man winning his ass in a poker game. It doesn’t hurt that the witch is gorgeous or all the shitty porn he’s seen with a similar premise. 

Forcing himself to think less sexy thoughts recalling remains from various ‘animal attacks’, his body calms and he calls Dean. 

“Hey-”

“Sammy! Dude you won? That’s amazing- I still can’t believe it, where should we pick you up?” 

“I um,” Sam hesitates, and it hurts even if the surprise is warranted, it’s not like he’d _actually_ beaten the magical poker wizard. “Met someone?” 

“Your beer hun,” Patrick says in a feminine voice, accent gone, and Sam nearly drops his phone at how realistic he sounds. 

“You dog! Heh about time, enjoy your win.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Dean hangs up and Sam pockets the phone, glancing at Patrick. “Thanks, that was uh really authentic sounding.” 

Patrick smirks, “It’s an easy spell, I can teach ye.” 

And Sam’s mind goes back to Ruby teaching him how to make hex bags, sitting naked between his thighs. It was still good to know but- “Maybe after?” 

Patrick’s mouth turns soft as they reach a hotel, “Deal.” 

He should be angrier about this whole thing. This was the witch who nearly killed Bobby and Dean, who gave him the clap for christ’s sake. But he also threw him a lifeline, one he obviously didn’t need to, and Sam can’t just easily hate him after that. And maybe he’s getting old, or maybe a single witch seems insignificant compared to Lucifer, but he isn’t mad. The absence of anger shouldn’t feel so dramatic, good lord does he need therapy, but there it is. 

Patrick fucks like he plays cards, all charming ease as he’s already sized him up and then zeroes in on specifics. Sam’s used to hard and fast hookups, and the first round even goes like that, them rolling around the over-sized bed, taking what they need. But then Patrick keeps going, the second round beginning too soon and going too slow. It makes Sam want to weep at the drawn out pleasure, at how sensitive he is now, and Patrick revels in it. He’ll get him back later, Sam thinks, whimpering as his fingers delve into him again, too much and not enough. (He does, much later. As dawn begins to crack, Sam sucks him down, stopping whenever he gets close.) 

Hours later Sam wakes up easy, absurdly so. It’s the best night’s sleep he’s had since he knew monsters existed, probably ever. Patrick’s curled around him, warm and comforting. A one-night stand morning after in an admittedly nicer hotel room than usual shouldn’t be evoking such domestic bliss. It feels deeper than any of the families he played normal with, than any of the people who loved him. It feels-

“It’s the white heathers,” Patrick says, and Sam turns around in his arms, tensing. 

“Easy,” he says, bopping his nose. “Most people notice them after sleeping,” Patrick says gesturing up to a wreath of white flowers. 

“What does it do?” Sam asks.

Patrick raises an eyebrow, “You seemed sharper last night lad.” 

“Oh fuck off-”

“More polite too,” he interjects, eyes dancing. 

“What does it do to your dreams?” 

“There you are,” he says, brushing a bit of Sam’s hair behind his ear, fingers lingering and tingling. “They’re for protection. I first made the wreath many years ago, when I had more people hunting me.” 

Sam’s stomach turns, and Patrick keeps talking. “Happy accident that I discovered it repels nightmares too.” His voice turns teasing, his fingers slipping down his neck. “Stay with me and you’ll never so much as turn in your sleep.” 

It’s tempting, beyond tempting. It’s easy to imagine life on the road with Patrick, all five star hotels and midnight poker games and mind blowing sex. It’d be running away again, and it shouldn’t be so damn tempting. Not after everything. 

“I want to,” Sam says. “It’s the apocalypse, I can’t abandon it.” 

The corner of Patrick’s mouth twists up, “Don’t think I’d be handy in a fight?” 

“Hah, it’s not that,” Sam says, licking his lips. “Most witches I’ve met have better self-preservation.”

He laughs, his belly shaking against him. “You’re a fun one Sam. Why not let someone else save the world?” 

_Because I started it_ , weighs in his throat, another version comes out, “It has to be me.” 

“Mhmm,” Patrick says, fingers wandering further south, lightly pulling on his chest hair. “Not right now though, the world seems pretty safe to me.” 

Sam laughs, a little incredulous as he thinks about Lucifer existing somewhere on earth. But then Patrick’s sure hands are on his dick and Sam’s mind goes mercifully blank. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, a little lie they both recognize. He tacks on a truth to make it better, “Please?” 

Patrick smiles wide, kisses down his body, warm breath playfully bathing his dick. “Gonna make you beg so pretty. For my mouth, my fingers, my cock. You’re gonna feel me, echoes of me no matter where you go. I don’t let go of my lovers easy Sam.”

“Promise?” Sam asks, eyes bright. 

Patrick crawls back up to kiss him, an oath thick on his tongue, and Sam believes every word.


End file.
